My divorce, though comparatively gentle and humane, still left me shattered, bone-tired and distrustful. Throughout our 12-year marriage, I felt like I had been playing the role of a high-society Hollywood wife and mother, and I no longer knew who I really was.
The combination of a domineering stepfather (who was overly concerned with propriety) and my experience as the only Black girl in every school I attended had smothered my true self; all I ever wanted to do was fit in and conceal any quality that rubbed people the wrong way. In my marriage, I presented my husband with what I imagined to be the most acceptable version of me, one that I hoped he wouldn’t find annoying or disappointing.
This pretense was costly though. By the time I filed for divorce, not only had I lost touch with myself, but I had also developed a nasty addiction to sleeping pills, from taking one Ambien a night to popping them constantly, often washed down with booze. I was a 43-year-old P.T.A. president and mother of two. Former publicist, former would-be author and now former wife. Once I had made the painful decision to go to treatment, I invited my best friend over to talk everything through.
“The only bright spot,” I told her after crying on her shoulder, “is that I can finally stop pretending to be something that I’m not.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean that I’m terrible at relationships,” I said. “And I’ve been pretending that I’m good at them. Being divorced might be a relief.”
The moment I arrived at the Arizona rehab center, the walls started closing in on me. During orientation, in a small room with six other new patients, I started to hyperventilate. Mortified, I jumped up and left.
